Checkmate
by aroseofmanyleaves
Summary: "Without him, there would be no living. There would just be emptiness, a shallow feeling of self-pity, and a deeper, darker and far more vicious loneliness that would gnaw away at this sanity until he conceded, fell to his knees and prayed for God to take him too." Destiel.


He sits quietly on the edge of the bed, his knees quivering, knocking together, and his heart beat fluctuating with every rustle of the falling snow outside. He sits in the darkness. Waiting.

He does not know what he will say. 'I love you' is the main message, but yelling it abruptly at the man he pulled from Hell, well, it could not work that simply.

Not that anything in this situation was simple.

The love he felt – obsessive, possessive and profound – for Dean scared him. He had loved before, but it had been too different; his family had always been free spirits, open-minded, at peace. Dean was closed off, bitter, and unwilling to love anyone he stood a chance of losing.

It would be so easy to not say anything, to just continue on their lives as best friends, there for each other in their times of need. But he wanted – no, he needed – a deeper kind of relationship with him; something passionate, beautiful, yet fierce as a burning inferno. Something eternal.

An engine stops outside, and he hears the tires crunching to a stop atop the snow. The car door opens. The car door closes. There is the faint sound of footsteps, but the silence makes them feel like earthquakes where he sits. There are three impatient knocks on the door.

He flinches, takes a deep breath. "Come in."

The door creaks wearily, and Dean's obviously frustrated mood precedes him. Dean still falters at the door though. He can feel him staring.

"Hey man, why are you sat in the dark?" he asks bemusedly, quickly flicking the light switch on and dumping a crate of beer on the motel kitchen table.

He rises from his perch on the bed, so afraid that he can feel his fragile little heart pumping.

There is a tender moment, one which could be passed by with careless whispers, or the gentle caress of a cheek, but he allows it to slip him by, letting it fall through his fingers like a cupped handful of water. Looking straight at him now, he realizes that time is no longer relative – all that matters is Dean. He is the absolute necessity. Without him, there would be no living. There would just be emptiness, a shallow feeling of self-pity, and a deeper, darker and far more vicious loneliness that would gnaw away at this sanity until he conceded, fell to his knees and prayed for God to take him too.

And suddenly, words are too big for his mouth, and he can't force them out. His mouth goes dry, his eyes widen, a tear slips down his unshaven cheek, and he steps forward. He sees Dean's confusion, but throws it aside.

He stands still in front of him, a less than platonic distance between them. He has time, yet his courage to speak has deserted him.

So he acts.

Leaning forward onto the arches of his feet, he rests a hand on Dean's chest, and kisses him. It feels like he is being electrocuted. There is pain, pain, so much pain, but there is a spark, and it catches. Oh love, why must be it always be so dismal?

For a moment, Dean does not react, but then he forces his hand off his chest and roughly pushes him backwards and away from him. He looks furious.

But maybe, just a little…sad.

"What the hell are you doing man? Not cool!" Dean yells, slapping his hand to his mouth and wiping away memories of that kiss. Gone is the sadness, the pity, the part of him that so desperately wanted to kiss him back – no, it's not allowed. To love is to be weak, and Dean can't be weak. No, no weaknesses. None.

He plasters on a horrified, disgusted look and then leaves, slamming the door shut behind him and just hoping that the wind is cold enough to freeze his tears before they fall.

The emptiness is grander than he assumed. So much larger, so much more engulfing, so much more hideous. He found his way back to the bed and just dropped onto the pillows, swallowing back the enduring depression trying to force its way out. There was the sickening fear that maybe this loneliness had won a long time ago, and to protect himself from the dreadful truth (_Dean doesn't love you_), he had invented signs and conversations and moments to trick himself into feeling wanted.

But Dean doesn't want him.

And now it feels like all of his insides have been carved out with a blunt knife. He traces his fingers lightly across his lips, slowly, softly, silently, already forgetting how they felt with Dean's pressed against them.

This had been his last chance.

Game over.


End file.
